


Identified

by SEF



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Gen Fic, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-18
Updated: 2001-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:51:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEF/pseuds/SEF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmastime, and Joe and Duncan are drowning their sorrows in the back room of Joe's bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identified

**Author's Note:**

> This story was co-written in round-robin style with Kat Parsons. Sue suggested it would be fun to write something together, Kat inadvertently provided inspiration with a comment on another subject, Sue had the inspiration, and we took turns filling in the details. For more than a week, email flew between the coasts. The resulting story was beta-read by Janine Shahinian and Mary Panza, who have our gratitude for their feedback.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
_Seacouver, December 1996_   


"It just popped up on the computer this morning." Joe poured four more fingers of Scotch into MacLeod's glass and then his own. After three drinks both men should have been feeling pleasantly mellow, but nothing could soften the blow Joe had had to deal the Highlander. "The records are supposed to be updated at least once every six months, but they're always late."

Numb, MacLeod simply nodded and clutched his glass.

Joe swiped at the drooping banner of Santa Claus heads with which Mike had festooned his office and then sat, heavily, in the chair across from Duncan. "The computer geeks would rather write an applet that says 'Happy Holidays' in blinking red letters than update the goddamn database," he grumbled.

The feeble attempt at misdirection only aggravated Duncan further. "How could you _not_ know about this?" he exploded. "What the hell are your people doing?" He downed half his whiskey in a single gulp, not even tasting it.

Joe sighed. "I don't know how it happened, MacLeod. Richie's Watcher is kind of a ditz, but I never thought she was unreliable."

"Yeah, she just happened to miss..." Duncan swallowed hard. "How many?"

"Twenty-seven," Joe said somberly.

"Twenty-seven! Twenty-seven heads! How is that possible?" Duncan glared at Joe so fiercely that the Watcher instinctively retreated behind the heap of file folders that lay in front of him.

A moment later Joe shook his head and straightened in his chair. "If it had been twenty-six I might never have noticed," he said regretfully. "But twenty-seven is more than one per week. He's identified as a 'Headhunter' now. I always get notified separately when there's a new entry on that list."

"It's not Richie. It couldn't be." Duncan emptied his glass and slammed it down onto the desk.

"He's an immortal, Mac." Some truths had to be faced. "There have been years when you've come pretty close to showing up on that list yourself."

"It's a mistake," Duncan said flatly. "It wasn't Richie."

"I've got twenty-seven American and Canadian Watchers who say differently." Joe shoved the printouts in front of Duncan. "They all report a red-headed immortal appearing to be in his twenties who introduces himself as Richard Ryan. Just before he kills."

"No!" Duncan objected, but his eyes drifted to the post mortem reports on twenty-seven of his kind.

Joe said nothing more. He emptied his own glass and grimaced at the jazzy notes of "Toyland" that wafted through the office door. As Duncan opened the first folder, Joe reached for the bottle to fill both their glasses.

Duncan scanned the reports, his heart sinking. His own soul wasn't the only one lost when he'd taken the Dark Quickening, it seemed. There was no holy spring for Richie: Richie didn't have four hundred years of relative stability and strong values to call on, Richie didn't have his father's sword. And Richie wasn't out of control, either, because if these reports were true, he was sly enough to hide his activities. Which meant he knew what he was doing, and knew it was wrong.

Duncan knew the kid had taken heads in the months they'd been apart, and he understood why an angry, frightened youngster, betrayed and alone, might go on the offensive. From Richie's point of view, it would make sense--get the fight over with, since it was inevitable; maybe get the dying over with, too, since it was also pretty much inevitable.

But more than one head a week? That wasn't an angry, frightened kid. That was a cold-blooded, Quickening-addicted, head-hunting murderer. 'But he's not that skillful yet,' a small inner voice protested. 'He couldn't do it if he wanted to.'

Not by fair means.

Duncan drained his glass and accepted another refill.

Joe regarded him sadly over the rim of his own glass. "Face it, Mac. He's gone bad. We both missed it. Because we wanted to."

Duncan stood up and immediately sat down again--or tried to. Unaccountably, the chair moved from under him, and he wound up perched on the arm, almost tipping the chair and himself over. "He's nobbut a lad," Duncan protested, aware that his position was in all respects precarious.

"He just looks it," Joe pointed out. "He lost most of his innocence early. He didn't have a solid foundation for his life, and..."

"And I pushed 'im off it." Duncan knocked back another shot of the whiskey. It wasn't helping.

"Immortality pushed him." Joe refilled Duncan's glass, studying his friend. He knew every page of Duncan's 404-year history. He didn't have to ask the question. But he did.

"What are you going to do?"

"You have seen him, Joseph..." Duncan's pleading voice was like that of a little boy. "I know he was hurt, he dinna hide that. He couldna. How could 'e hide a thing like this?" He swilled his Scotch like it was water.

Joe stared morosely into his own nearly empty glass. "Dunno, MacLeod--unless he's gone sociopio...sociaph...sociopocio..." He burped. "Loony."

Then Joe looked at Duncan grimly. "Maybe he's waiting for _your_ head."

"No. He wouldna do that. Never." Duncan slid into the seat of the chair and held out his glass.

With both hands, his eyes squinted and his mouth in a careful "O," Joe obliged.

"He wouldna turn on me, like I did on him." Duncan drew himself up in his chair. "I canna kill him. If he wants it," Duncan declared formally, "he can _'ave_ my bleedin' head." He looked at Joe beseechingly. "He's jus' a kid. He's jus' a kid, Joe."

"Jus' a kid," Joe agreed owlishly, refilling his own glass. "_Nice_ kid. Usta be. Miss'm." He sniffed. "Poor Richie." He lowered his mouth to his glass to suck up the whiskey.

Duncan raised his head and looked around. An annoying laughing sound and a loud buzz set his head to spinning. "Damn fine Scotch," Duncan said mournfully.

"HAP-py Christmas!" Methos trilled as he breezed through the office door with beer bottle in hand. "Drinking without me? For shame."

The two men stared at him open-mouthed. Duncan jerked his head and squinted at the hapless immortal. "We don't need a cynic," he said balefully.

"Not guilty," Methos declared cheerily. "I'm a Taoist this week. Seeking the Way to the beer cooler."

Joe belatedly pulled the Watcher reports back across the desk, knocking several on the floor in the process.

"Sharing secrets, are we? Well, I'm a member of the club." Methos put his beer bottle on the desk and shrugged his jacket off, allowing it to slip down his arms and onto the floor. Beneath his tweeds he wore a red t-shirt that featured a large white sheep and the words "Baaa, humbug!"

Methos held his wrists up to Joe. "See, I'm doubly qualified."

Joe crouched protectively over the remaining files.

"'S no use, Joseph. He's too crafty." Duncan eyed him maliciously. "That's how he survives, y'know."

"He's one calculating son of a bitch," Joe agreed with a scowl.

"I can't speak for my mother, but _I_ appreciate the compliment," Methos said genially. "And just what are you two gentlemen trying to keep from the all-powerful Oz?"

Joe rubbed his eyes and passed a hand through his hair. "The latest headhunter list," he enunciated carefully. "Richie's on it. Twenty-seven kills that his own Watcher never reported."

Methos picked up his beer bottle and swished the liquid inside thoughtfully. "My," he said mildly. "Someone's been a busy boy."

"'S no concern a' yours, Methos." Duncan was in no mood for a lecture on self-preservation and moral ambiguity.

"Certainly not," Methos agreed. "I like headhunters. Some of my best friends are headhunters. In fact, one of them's in the bar right now."

Duncan's jaw dropped. "Rishie's here? Now?"

Methos nodded and smiled, and then turned to Joe. "I take it the semiannual reports are finally in? Mind if I take a gander?"

Joe waved at his laptop on the filing cabinet. "Help yourself."

Duncan stood regally and offered his hand to Joe. "Goodbye, Joseph. I'm goin' to give the lad ma head."

"Yes, yes, MacLeod, you do that," Methos told him, making a graceful little shooing motion with his right hand as he settled down to the computer.

"Miss you, MacLeod," Joe intoned, wringing his hand with genuine emotion. "You were one of the good ones. Thought you might be _the_ one."

"I'll take it outside," Duncan promised, turning to struggle with the door, "so there isna too much mess."

"'Preciate that."

"And, Methos, you do no' harm the lad. S'not his fault."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Methos murmured. "Unless, of course, he should become inconvenient to me."

Duncan searched his considerable memory for an insult sufficiently vile, and came up with one that was suitable if not technically accurate. "Sassenach," he muttered.

Finally getting a grip on the doorknob, Duncan emerged into the bar, his ears ringing momentarily from the drone of sleigh bells and a soft buzz. Standing at the bar, lipsynching to "Jingle Bell Rock" with Mike and the newest waitress, was Richie the Headhunter. Richie gave him a wave, but Duncan couldn't produce so much as a smile in return. He straightened up, taking a moment to focus his mind and body for the ordeal ahead. He walked over and planted himself, weaving ever so slightly on his feet, in front of the boy who had once been his pride and joy.

Richie would never age past nineteen, of course, but he'd found ways of appearing older. Partly it was a matter of wardrobe, which no longer featured holey jeans and red boots, and partly it was his newly developed physique and confident carriage. The short military haircut, so unlike Richie--his Richie--added a couple of years. But the most effective disguise of Richie's "true" age was his eyes, which, Duncan saw with sorrow, were old. Too old.

'Too many Quickenings?' he wondered. 'Or was my betrayal enough?'

Anything Richie had done, any crimes he'd committed, were Duncan's fault. He could only hope his Quickening would heal Richie somehow, or satisfy his blood lust. "We mus' talk," Duncan said loudly, not waiting for the song to end.

Richie stared at him a moment, stared with those icy, blue, too-old eyes. Then he pulled away from the other two merrymakers with a stiff nod. He set his mug of beer aside on the bar. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Mac. Thought I'd at least get a hello."

"Hello." Duncan struggled a little to keep his steps in a straight line as he led the way to the door. As soon as they'd walked around the building to the alley, Duncan grasped his one-time protege by the shoulders. "Rishie, lad, what have ye been doing?"

"Christmas shopping, Mac. In Vancouver. I told you I was going." Richie looked at him quizzically. "What's the matter, you run out of clean towels?"

"Ye've been hunting. Hunting innocent men and women." Duncan gazed sorrowfully into the young man's eyes. "I know, lad. I know about the life you're leading."

Richie's eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's the chieftain must take responsibility for the clan," Duncan recited, one hand reaching out to caress Richie's pink cheek for just a moment. "I canna live with this shame."

Richie stepped away from Mac's touch. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

"Aye, kill me, and end it here."

Richie pulled his sword smoothly from his jacket and circled away from the closed end of the alley. "You're calling _me_ a killer? You?"

"You can still change. It's no' too late." Duncan knelt on the littered pavement with great dignity. "But you must take my head. You mus' end it here."

"You're smashed," Richie said disbelievingly, the point of his sword wavering. "_Wasted._"

"I've failed ye. As a teacher and a friend." Duncan bent his head. "Finish it, I say."

"Ahem." Annoying laughing noises sounded in Duncan and Richie's heads and they looked around to see Methos standing at the entrance to the alley. He carried a bottle in his right hand and held the laptop computer folded beneath his left arm. "Sorry to interrupt, but if I could just break in for a moment I could save us all a lot of trouble down the road."

Richie lowered his sword and Duncan, at a loss for words, plopped down on the asphalt and gaped at the older immortal.

"Right," Methos said. "Now, I do have a will on record for you, MacLeod--very good. You'd be surprised how many immortals think they're going to live forever." He placed the computer on a sturdy wastecan and flipped up the screen. "The difficulty is this bequest you've made to Richard Ryan."

"You've no say in the matter," Duncan growled. "Ye can help yourself to wha'ever's left in ma fridge."

"Very kind," Methos acknowledged. "Though I was rather hoping for the T-bird. But that's not the problem. It's a matter of identification, you see. I've checked the credit database and it seems there are eight Richard Ryans in the Greater Seacouver area alone. Hundreds in the US and Canada. As your executor, Joe's going to need some proof of identity."

Richie impatiently thrust his sword back into his jacket, cutting his thumb in the process. "Shoot, dang, darn, I hate when I do that!" He popped the thumb into his mouth and turned to Methos. "What, has he taken an Alcoholic Quickening now?" he asked around the thumb.

"'Tis no' a joke!" Duncan insisted. "'Tis Rishie's soul at stake. An' Joe knows whish Rishie I mean!"

"Does he?" Methos asked. "Perhaps he does. But do all the other Watchers know 'whish Rishie' you mean?"

There was a tingling in Richie's mouth, indicating the little blue lightning flash had healed his thumb. He gratefully pulled the thumb out. "Would _somebody_ tell me what's going on?"

Duncan's face lit up as he rose onto his knees. "Wait a minute! I have an idea."

"In five thousand years, wonders have never ceased," Methos said with a sage nod. "It's what makes life interesting. So, go on, MacLeod--what's the idea?"

"I woulda tol' ye already if you'd bluidy shut up, ye prosing bluidy self-important--"

"The idea?"

"What if it's no' _ma_ Rishie? Wha' if there's another?" Richie had incautiously drifted closer, and Duncan flung his arms about Richie's waist and pulled him close. "Isna ma Rishie at all!"

"Brilliant deduction, MacLeod!" Methos folded up the computer and headed back around the building trailing a muttered, "How did he ever live to be forty, much less...?" as his voice faded into the distance.

Richie tried to follow, but was hampered by a large and affectionate Scotsman trying to use him for a support as he clambered to his feet. "Meth--" he shouted, but recollected that was a secret with which he'd been entrusted despite the oldest immortal's conviction that 22 was too ridiculously young for discretion. "Pierson! Pierson, come back here! Geez, Adam..." he whined, but Methos had disappeared around the corner.

"You're a good boy," Duncan told Richie, leaning now on his shoulder. "Knew it all along. Buy you a drink."

Richie sighed, slipped a steadying arm around Duncan, and pulled him along. "Come on, big fella. Let's go back inside and you can tell me all about it."

They were met inside by Joe, who was clinging to the bar for support, having lost his cane somewhere. It appeared to Richie that the Watcher was surprised to see them.

"RISH-ie!" Joe wiped at his watering eyes. "You couldn't do it, huh? That's fine. That's so fine." He teetered forward as if to hug the young immortal, but crashed into MacLeod instead. Duncan loosened his grip on Richie to grab Joe, and both men tumbled to the floor as nearby drinkers scattered in all directions.

"Are ye daft?" Duncan scolded Joe as they untangled themselves on the floor. "Rishie's no' a killer. Yer 'recious p'records are agley!"

"Never said they were pretty, MacLeod," Joe insisted as Richie heaved him to his feet.

Methos rose from his seat at a nearby table, stepped delicately over Duncan's legs, and made his way behind the bar, where he helped himself to another bottle of beer. "Perhaps it would be a good idea to move this conversation into the office," he suggested.

"Damn straight," Joe agreed. He covered both ears with his hands as the band began an upbeat version of "The Little Drummer Boy."

Richie gave Duncan a hand up and supported both Duncan and Joe as they staggered into the office. Methos sauntered behind. The drum solo began, and Methos shut the office door with a shudder.

******

Duncan collapsed onto the sofa and pulled Richie down beside him, draping an arm around the young man's neck. Joe seated himself carefully behind the desk as Methos settled into a chair and once again produced the laptop.

"Now the way I see it," Methos began, "we can fix this little problem with a simple change of name."

"Whose name are we talking about here?" Richie asked. "_What_ problem?"

"Richard Ryan," Methos explained patiently. "It's already taken. You seem to have a cousin in Saskatchewan--he even has red hair."

"I don't have red hair," Richie pointed out irritably. "It's blond."

"Strawberra blond," Duncan agreed, as he tried without success to ruffle Richie's hair. He peered closely at the young man's head, surprised by the lack of curls there.

"Only girls are strawberry blondes." Richie disengaged himself from the Scotsman. "Who's this other Richard Ryan flake?"

"Another immortal," Methos replied. "He's apparently in a bad mood." The oldest living immortal sipped at his beer. "So, what do you think you would like in the way of names?"

"I'm not changing my name!"

Methos tilted his head and considered the young immortal. "No reason you need worry about it, then. I'll come up with something to put in the database, and only the Watchers will know about it."

"Ha! Like I believe that."

Joe lifted his head at Richie's implied accusation, but failed to register a coherent protest.

"I'm not taking any name _you_ give me," Richie said suspiciously. "And why can't you rename the other guy, anyway?"

"He's older than you," Methos replied. "Seniority does have _some_ privileges."

"_Everybody's_ older than me. I'm The Little Immortal Boy." Richie batted away Duncan's hand as the Highlander tried to pat him on the head. "Geez, Mac, ya mind? A little dignity here?"

Methos sighed. He snatched down one of Joe's prized bottles of bonded Kentucky sipping whiskey, poured out a shot, and passed it to Richie. "Here, kid, loosen up a little, will you? You're nearly as grim as MacLeod here."

Richie sniffed at the glass, then took a sip. "I'm not grim. Ask anybody. Go to my old neighborhood, they'll tell you--"

"Nassy old neighborhood," Duncan interjected. "No place to grow up."

"--I'm a bundle of fun," Richie insisted, ignoring the interruption.

"Not fun as y'used to be," Joe opined. "Usta make me laugh."

"Well, gee, excuse me if I outgrew being the resident comic relief." Richie knocked back the bourbon with a defiant glare at Joe and Duncan. "I'm 22 now, you know. I'm not a kid anymore."

Duncan sputtered over a laugh that he presumably meant to stifle.

Methos hastily refilled Richie's glass. "He's drunk. Be patient with him."

Richie sipped this time. "So how come we never heard of this guy before now?"

"He's been in the database for sixty-some years. He just hasn't attracted any attention until recently. And, um, there's another little problem."

"Huh?" Joe came awake. "Whassa problem?"

"Well, O great supervisory one, it seems there are no records for a Richard Ryan who lives in Seacouver."

"_What!?_" Richie and Joe spoke simultaneously: one with delight and the other with dismay.

"Nada," Methos confirmed. "I have a half-dozen reports on a Richie Ryan, thirty or so on R-I-T-C-H-I-E Ryan, a couple R-I-T-C-H-Y Ryans, an R. R-Y-U-N, and even, amazingly, a W-R-Y-T-S-C-H-I-E Ryan. There's also a puzzling creature called 'The Studlander' who apparently shares the same identity."

"Lemme see that!" Joe reached for the computer, which Methos obligingly shoved in front of him.

Joe clicked through the reports that Methos had assembled. "Ohmigod," Joe muttered. "It's Zoe. She's always had a crush on the kid."

"It's the American education system," Methos corrected. "Hormones are no excuse for bad spelling."

"'S cute," Duncan interjected. "Rishie's got a secret admirer."

"Shut up, Mac," Richie said. He turned to Methos. "So why can't you just change all my records to Richard Ryan?"

"Well, for one thing, the database won't allow two immortals with the same name. Besides, unless you want to be a target for do-gooding immortals determined to stop headhunters or avenge their friends, you've got to get rid of possible confusion." Methos paused. "I suppose you could use 'Richie' all the time, but you'd need to make a distinction when you announce yourself."

"'I'm Rishie Ryan of the Seacouver Ryans,'" Joe suggested helpfully.

"Or 'I'm Richie Ryan of Juvenile Hall,'" Methos added, causing Richie to choke on his drink.

Duncan struggled to pull his sword, finding it difficult since he was sitting on his coat. "Stop teasin' the lad, ye...Where is that damn...? Ye don't need to be pickin' on somebody who's jus' a bairn. Two hundert and fifty times his age, and ye make fun o' him!"

"Easy, Mac." Richie put a finger through Duncan's belt loop and pulled him back onto the sofa. Then he again addressed himself to Methos. "I don't want to change my name. I mean, all my life I've been bouncing around, I've never had a home, I've never had anything but myself. I know, someday I'll have to use an alias--if I live long enough. But not yet."

Methos stood over him, his lips pursed, as he debated the issue. "Right then. We need some alternatives." He retrieved the laptop from Joe and sat back down with it, thoughtfully navigating around the Ryans listed there.

"I got it, Mac, you can adopt him," Joe suggested brightly. "Check it out, Rich--'Rishie Ryan of the Clan MacLeod.' Ya gotta love it."

"I hate to break it to you, but you can't adopt a 22-year-old," Richie sighed. Mac was regarding him with undeniable, if somewhat unfocused, affection; Richie slid further down the sofa, out of hair-ruffling range.

"I need an identity of my own," Richie continued. "I can't just hang onto Mac the rest of my life like one of those fish that hangs on a shark."

"Admirable sentiment, I'm sure," Methos murmured, paging down to the next sixteen Richard Ryans. "What did the skirt-wearing do-gooding Pollyanna do, make you take the Boy Scout oath the night of your first death?"

"'Ah'm Richar' Ryan, Boy Scouts of America,'" Duncan giggled.

"Very funny," Richie snarled. He took a swig of whiskey. A gleam appeared in his eye. "Hey, Mac, you know what the guys call you around the locker room? Ole Skinny Butt!"

Joe shook with laughter and nearly slipped out of his chair. Even Methos smiled. "Actually," the oldest immortal said, "associating physical attributes with names is an ancient tradition. For example, I was once known as Methos the Great."

"Methos the Great?" Richie echoed.

"Yes," Methos nodded. "By my eighth wife. Unfortunately, it didn't outlast the honeymoon. She figured out that I'm just a guy."

"A really _old_ guy," Joe chortled, pulling himself up in his chair.

"So, what would be appropriate for you?" Methos wondered aloud. "Richie the Red? That has a long tradition. And it's appropriate for the business we're in, too."

"I do NOT have red hair!" Richie shouted.

Methos refilled Richie's glass. "You really need to loosen up, kid. If your ass gets any tighter you'll implode."

Richie fumed in silence a few moments, torn between drinking the bourbon and flinging it into the really old guy's face.

"Rishie the Curly," Mac suggested unexpectedly.

Richie groaned and knocked the drink back. He needed it.

"Curly-Top Ryan!" Joe amended exultantly, making a try for the bottle, which Methos had put down just beyond his reach.

Richie ground his teeth in frustration. "For. The. Record. My hair is _not_ red. I am not a strawberry blond. And my hair is NOT CURLY ANYMORE!"

"'Twould be if you let it grrrow," a happy Scottish voice assured him.

"Rishie the Short," Joe singsonged helpfully, still reviewing Richie's attributes.

Richie flung himself back, knocking his head against the wall with a resounding thud.

"Rishie Blue-Eyes," Duncan cooed.

"Baby Face Ryan," Methos suggested.

Richie glared at him. "Oh, that's good. Coming from a guy who's named for a breath mint."

"That's Mentos. I'm Methos," the old guy said calmly. "Perhaps Joe's idea wasn't so bad," he mused.

"Curlytop?!"

"No, no--"

"Richie the Short? You expect me to call myself Richie the Short? So help me, Methos, I'll..."

"No, no, couldn't ask that of you. I meant about MacLeod adopting you."

"Happy to do it," Mac offered, a sloppy smile on his face. "Good boy. _Ma_ Rishie's no' a murderer. Proud a' him."

Richie cast his mentor a surprised glance. If Mac was proud of him, this was the first he'd heard of it. It must be the booze talking; he was beginning to feel a little fuzzy himself. "Thanks heaps, Mac, but I'm still too old."

"Too old," Duncan sputtered, and Joe giggled with him.

Methos took a pull at his beer, then motioned Richie to hold out his glass for another shot of bourbon. "I just meant you could adopt his name. As his student, you're his spiritual descendant, and Richard Ryan MacLeod doesn't sound bad at all."

Richie felt himself blush and damned his fair complexion. Taking Mac's name would be like laying claim to some sort of family relationship. And it had been borne in upon Richie rather forcibly over the past couple of years that Mac didn't regard him that way at all, whatever he might once have imagined. "I coulden." That wasn't right. He took a sip to lubricate his tongue. "I couldna." Damn!

"Sssounds like a Scotsman already." Joe took up a pen. "I'll jus' make a notatatation on your rec--"

"No!" Well, that came out right. "Are you kiddin'? You know how many headunners're affer MacLeods? I don't play in that league."

"Jus' a kid," Mac agreed, scooting over to give him a comforting pat and steal his booze. Richie snatched it back.

"Hmmm. 'Richie the Kid,'" Methos said. "Another name with a grim heritage and a long tradition."

"I am NOT a KID!"

Methos sighed. "There's no reasoning with drunks or children, which lets out all of you." Methos contemplated his beer bottle. "You know, I just realized--"

"What?" Richie interrupted hopefully.

"This bottle is empty."

"I'll get another one." Richie wanted out of that room. He rose from the sofa, swaying gently. He took two steps back when he opened the office door and was assaulted by a sultry, and greatly amplified, voice singing "Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas." The band's vocalist had arrived. Richie squared his shoulders and plunged bravely into the crowded bar.

"Ach," Duncan moaned at the blast of sound.

"Raised in a barn?" Joe groused. He considered getting up to close the door, but wisely thought better of the idea--his cane was still AWOL.

"Gentlemen," Methos said over the music, "I need a little cooperation here. You've hurt the child's feelings."

Duncan sniffed lugubriously. "You're the one started on phys'cal atterboots," he whined.

"Yes, well, most people aren't insulted when told they have red hair."

"Le's not get personal," Joe said solemnly. "We don' need to make fun o' Rishie." He pulled himself up to the desk, made another playful grab for the whiskey bottle, and then laughed with delight as he was struck by an inspiration. "We can make fun o' his clo'se!"

The idea alone was enough to make Duncan fall over on the sofa in a helpless ball of laughter. "Richar' Uglyjacket!" MacLeod said gleefully when he had recovered his breath.

"Mr. Holey-Pants," Joe added, and Duncan keeled over again.

"Bandana-Head," Duncan squeaked, barely able to breathe.

"Oh, wait, wait--think how many bikes he's totaled," Joe suggested, waving his hand excitedly for attention. "Crash Dummy Ryan."

"Hush!" Methos said sternly.

Richie walked carefully into the room, carrying a bottle of beer and another of Irish whiskey, with Joe's cane dangling from his elbow. He kicked the door closed behind him--too late to avoid the first notes of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" as played on a tuba.

"I hope you 'preciate what I went through to get this booze," Richie said.

"We can't help but appreciate it. You left the door open." Methos accepted his beer and waited while Richie returned the cane to its rightful owner and poured generous drinks for himself and the others. The oldest immortal recalled somewhat belatedly that, according to Joe, Richie had recently been given to excess drinking. 'Hmm, Richie the Red-Nosed Ryan. No, he'd never go for it.'

"Now," Methos spoke aloud, "we've eliminated nicknames, we've eliminated attributes..."

"Pretty Boy Richie," Joe proposed with a chuckle.

"We have _eliminated_ attributes," Methos repeated, directing a repressive glare at both Joe and Duncan and feeling like a preschool teacher. "Perhaps an epithet? Like 'The Kurgan,' or 'The Highlander'--although, of course, that one is applied to both MacLeods."

"The Studlander!" Joe crowed.

"Wonder what inspired that nickname?" wondered the Highlander.

"I woulden mind that in bed," Richie admitted, blushing crimson, "but I'm not gonna innerduce myself that way."

"I would suggest a new middle name," Methos broke in. "Not MacLeod: you're not ready to take on that many enemies.

"Besides," he added, regarding Duncan sourly as the Highlander swilled the Irish whiskey and burped loudly, "I'm inclined to think two of them is quite enough. Perhaps there's someone you'd like to emulate? Another Richard?"

"Richar' Rodgers Ryan," Joe suggested. "Rolls right off the tongue. An' he was a damn fine composer."

"Oh, please," Richie sighed, rejoining Duncan on the couch.

Duncan valiantly attempted to make up for his earlier teasing. "Richar' the Lionhearted!"

Richie snickered. "Oh, I can see that now. I run into a bad guy in a dark alley and 'nounce I'm 'Richard the Lionhearted' Ryan. Then I cut his head off affer he falls down laughing!"

"Perhaps something a bit more plebeian." Methos once again redirected the conversation. "Richard Edgar Ryan, or some such."

"Edgar?" Richie asked incredulously.

"Well, pick your own blasted name!" Even Methos was becoming annoyed with the young man's recalcitrance. He opened his new bottle of beer, tossed the cap under the desk, and started playing with the computer again.

"C'mon, Rich," Duncan said encouragingly. "Whaddya like?"

"Wha's your middle names?" Richie directed the question at Joe and Duncan.

"I'm not _that_ drunk." Joe shook his head. "Only my mother knows, and she'sh dead."

"Arshibald," Duncan responded proudly.

Richie blinked at him. "You're Duncan _Archibald_ MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?" He started to shake with laughter. "Oh, man!" Richie moaned as he started a slow slide off the sofa.

"Archibald?" Methos asked, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

"Dona' you give _me_ grief, Mr. Methos, Mr. Myth, Mr. Thought, Mr. Is-That-a-Christian-Name-or-a-Last-Name!"

Methos stared a moment. "Christian name, MacLeod? You're drunker than I thought."

"Drunken Duncan!" Richie chortled.

"There you go--rhymes! A venerable tradition. Now, what rhymes with Richie?"

"Bitschy Rishie," Duncan suggested. "Itschy Rishie."

"Hey!"

"Dishy Rishie," Joe called out. "Zoe would like that."

"Very funny."

"Cryin' Ryan...Lyin' Ryan...Dyin' Ryan...nae, 'tis no' a good omen," Duncan decided. Joe laughed into his drink.

"Multiple initials can be quite nice," Methos interrupted, hoping to quash the levity before he lost his audience entirely. "Particularly if the combination is memorable. Comes in handy should you ever aspire to become president of a university."

It took Duncan a while to figure that one out. "Richar' Oscar Arshibal' Ryan. R-O-A-R!"

Joe nodded thoughtfully and sipped daintily at his drink. "Richar' Edgar Archibal' Ryan...REAR!"

Methos looked up again from the screen. "According to Zoe, it _is_ one of his best attributes."

All three drunks shouted with laughter.

Methos typed for a few minutes until the others had exhausted themselves. "Now, children, it is time I tucked you up in bed," he said. "Let's come to a decision. Is it going to be Richard or Richie?"

Richie pushed himself up until he was sitting on the back of the sofa. "Richard," he articulated carefully.

"Last name?"

"Ryan," Richie said defiantly. "I'm named for Em'ly Ryan, and I'm not shanging it!"

"Middle name, then?" The room was still. "Emily's maiden name, perhaps?"

"I don' _know_ it." Richie knocked back his drink before they could see the tears that welled in his eyes. "Sso, whaddya shuggest?"

"You can pick any name you like. Just pick something out of the air."

Richie shrugged and slipped back onto the sofa cushions. He reached for the bottle of Irish whiskey to refill his glass once more. "I dunno."

"Well, hasn't there ever been anyone you'd consider family?" Methos prompted. "A foster family you liked?"

Glumly, Richie mulled over his past, reviewing the families he'd known. "Only Em'ly Ryan. 'Cept..." He cast a shy glance at Duncan, then shook his head. "Nope, that's it."

Duncan was drunk, but not blind. "Wha'? What were you gonna shay, Rishie?"

"'Cept Tessa," Richie said softly. "Richar' Tessa Ryan, tha's a good one, huh?"

"Ach, lad." Duncan blinked away some tears of his own. The anniversary of his beloved's death had only recently passed. Joe and Methos were respectfully silent as the other two mourned.

Joe stood up with a suddenness that amazed them all, nearly over-balancing and going over onto his face. "Of course," he said clearly. "It's so damn obvious."

Richie, Duncan, and Methos looked at him blankly. "Noel!" Joe said. "Richard NO-el Ryan. It's _per_feck!"

Methos nodded approvingly. "Sophisticated _and_ seasonal."

Richie looked to Duncan for his permission.

"You're no' _ma_ Rishie." Duncan squeezed the young immortal's shoulder. "_Our_ Rishie."

Richie stared a moment, an unaccustomed feeling in his gut, then tore his eyes from Duncan's to try out the sound of it. "Richard Noel Ryan. Richard Noel Ryan. I like it!"

"Gods be praised," Methos said with genuine gratitude. He attacked the keyboard with renewed vigor. "I'll have this all cleared up in just a moment, and then we can all toddle off and dream of sugarplums."

Duncan reached over and picked a piece of plastic greenery from the wreath that adorned the front of Joe's desk. Gently he placed the leaves on Richie's head. "Joyeux Noel," Duncan said quietly, and he kissed Richie on the temple.

"An' God bless us every one!" Joe grinned.

"Yes, and now it's time for the 'God Rest Ye' part," Methos said. He returned Joe's computer to the desk and shooed the others out into the bar and toward the door, Duncan and Richie propping Joe up between them to the tune of "I'm Gettin' Nuttin' for Christmas." Mike was already on the phone to call a taxi. "It's been more than merry, gentlemen," Methos murmured as he closed the office door behind him.

On the desk, the forgotten computer screen flashed in bright red and green letters:

 

N O E L

 

 

  
  
  
  
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